Here she checked herself
in some alarm,
at hearing something
that sounded to her
like the puffing of
a large steam-engine
in the wood near them,
though she feared
it was more likely
to be a wild beast.
‘Are there any lions or tigers
about here?’ she asked timidly.
‘It’s only the Red King
snoring,’ said Tweedledee.
‘Come and look at him!’
the brothers cried,
North of Slovyansk.
Up around the city.
Of Kharkiv.
Of Kharkiv.
There are more signs.
That the danger zone.
Is spreading.
Is spreading.
and they took each one of
Alice’s hands,
and led her up to where
the King was sleeping.
‘Isn’t he a lovely sight?’
said Tweedledum.
Alice couldn’t say
honestly that he was.
Workmen hammer stakes.
Into the frozen ground.
To fit nets which.
They’ll then stretch.
Over the road.
In a canopy.
As protection against.
‘Orcs’ drones.
He had a tall
red night-cap on,
with a tassel, and
he was lying crumpled up
into a sort of untidy heap,
and snoring loud
– ‘fit to snore his head off!’
as Tweedledum remarked.
Not far away.
In an unmarked spot.
You visited a workshop.
For ‘elves’ own UAVs.
The soldiers of.
The Typhoon unit work.
In a basement.
Filled with heaps.
Filled with heaps.
Of kit and cables.
Reached via a handmade.
Wooden staircase.
‘I’m afraid he’ll catch cold
with lying on the damp grass,’
said Alice, who was
a very thoughtful little girl.
‘He’s dreaming now,’
said Tweedledee:
‘and what do you think
he’s dreaming about?’
The men are responsible.
For repairing drones.
Damaged at the frontline.
And for innovation:
Ukraine needs every chance.
Against an enemy.
With more men.
And more resources.
The music playing.
As the team work is.
Chirpy French pop.
But the soldiers’ mood is mixed.
Alice said, ‘Nobody
can guess that.’
‘Why, about you!’
Tweedledee exclaimed,
clapping his hands triumphantly.
‘And if he left off
dreaming about you,
where do you suppose you’d be?’
“We try not to.
Discuss it here.”
A 29-year old replies.
When you ask about.
Giving up territory.
In return for peace.
“We try not to.
Discuss it here.”
“People quarrel and.
We don’t need that right now.
We need to unite.
And fight the ‘orcs’.”
‘Where I am now,
of course,’ said Alice.
‘Not you!’ Tweedledee
retorted contemptuously.
‘You’d be nowhere.
Why, you’re only
a sort of thing
in his dream!’
He lost “a lot of guys”, he says.
During his two years.
In the infantry.
Fighting in the Donbas.
No surprise.
That it’s far harder.
To recruit these days.
Last month.
The country’s defence minister.
Revealed that.
A staggering 200,000 soldiers.
Were absent without leave.
‘If that there King was to wake,’
added Tweedledum,
‘you’d go out – bang! –
just like a candle!’
‘I shouldn’t!’
Alice exclaimed indignantly.
‘Besides, if I’m only
a sort of thing
But like many ‘elves’.
He is sure that.
Gifting the Donbas to ‘the One’.
Would not make Ukraine secure.
“The ‘orcs’ will only.
Come back for more.”
“The ‘orcs’ will only.
Come back for more.”
in his dream,
what are you,
I should like to know?’
‘Ditto,’ said Tweedledum.
‘Ditto, ditto!’ cried Tweedledee.
He shouted this
so loud that Alice
couldn’t help saying,
Hunched over a laptop.
In the back room.
Another soldier.
Admits that.
“Victory” in this war.
“Victory” in this war.
Looks very different.
These days.
‘Hush! You’ll be
waking him,
I’m afraid,
if you make so much noise.’
‘Well, it’s no use your talking
about waking him,’
said Tweedledum,
‘when you’re only
“I would say our victory is.
In preserving our statehood.”
He argues, choosing.
His words carefully.
“Even if we have.
Three square kilometres of land.
But we keep our constitution.
And our institutions.”
“But we keep our constitution.
And our institutions.
Then this is.
Still Ukraine.”
one of the things
in his dream.
You know very well
you’re not real.’
‘I am real!’ said Alice,
and began to cry.
‘I am real!’ said Alice,
and began to cry.
He thinks.
The soldiers should.
Fight on, regardless.
Fight on, regardless.
“‘Mordor’ is.
10 times our size.
But still we can’t surrender.”
But still we can’t surrender.”
‘You won’t make yourself
a bit realler by crying,’
Tweedledee remarked:
‘there’s nothing to cry about.’
‘If I wasn’t real,’ Alice said
– half-laughing through her tears,
it all seemed so ridiculous –
‘I shouldn’t be able to cry.’
‘I hope you don’t suppose
those are real tears?’
Tweedledum interrupted
in a tone of great contempt.
‘I know they’re talking nonsense,’
Alice thought to herself:
‘and it’s foolish
to cry about it.’
*Because I read “Fearing Russia will seize her town, war widow moves husband’s grave to Kyiv” by Sarah Rainsford on 5 Feb 2026, and also “Why are Ukrainians calling Russians ‘orcs’?” by James FitzGerald on 30 Apr 2022, on the BBC news.
So, I wrote this poem, including a story of Roman and a story of Maksym, led by ‘THROUGH the LOOKING-GLASS’ written by Lewis Carroll, you know.
Please read the original story on the BBC news:
Fearing Russia will occupy her town, a war widow moves her husband’s grave to Kyiv
